Chapter Text
The call comes in just after midnight.
Motorcycle down. Conscious. Thrown on impact. Five minutes out.
Whitaker doesn’t think twice at first—just another case, another body through the doors. He’s already pulling on gloves, already running through protocol in his head.
Then the paramedic’s voice cuts through the static:
“Male, mid-fifties—”
And something in Whitaker’s chest tightens.
Not recognition. Not yet.
Just instinct.
The ambulance doors slam open.
They wheel him in fast—controlled urgency, the kind that means it’s bad but not hopeless.
Leather jacket, scuffed to hell. Blood matted at his hairline. Breathing shallow, but steady.
And then Whitaker sees his face.
Robby.
Older than most of their trauma cases. Lines etched deeper than they should be. Grey threaded through his hair. Stubborn even unconscious, like his body forgot how to quit.
Whitaker stills for half a second.
Then—
“On three. One, two—”
Work takes over.
Hands steady. Voice level. Eyes everywhere except where they want to stay.
“Robby,” a paramedic says sharply, tapping his shoulder. “Stay with us.”
Robby’s eyes crack open, slow and heavy.
They drift.
Find Whitaker.
Recognition lands like a delayed echo.
“…Whit?”
His voice is rough, aged in a way Whitaker’s never really let himself think about.
Whitaker steps in closer, professional mask locking into place. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”
Robby exhales, something between a breath and a tired laugh. “Figures you’d be… on shift.”
“Don’t talk,” Whitaker says, already checking his airway, his pupils, anything to keep this clinical.
“Bike—” Robby starts.
“I know.”
There’s a flicker of something in Robby’s expression—annoyance, maybe. Or habit. Like being told what to do still doesn’t sit right, even now.
But he goes quiet.
Vitals stabilize. Not good, not terrible.
“Let’s move,” Whitaker says. “Get imaging.”
He doesn’t let himself think past that.
Two hours later, the worst of it is over.
Concussion. Two fractured ribs. Deep bruising along his side. Lucky, considering.
Robby’s awake now, propped slightly upright in a curtained bay. He looks… smaller, somehow. Not physically—but the edges are worn down. The invincibility people like Robby build around themselves doesn’t hold up well under hospital lights.
Whitaker stands outside the curtain longer than he should.
Then pushes it open.
Robby doesn’t look over this time. Just stares ahead, jaw tight.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters.
Whitaker steps inside. “Yeah, well. Some of us had actual work to do.”
“Right,” Robby says. “Wouldn’t want to prioritise the idiot who wrecked his bike.”
Whitaker pulls the chair closer, sitting down with a quiet scrape. “Good. You’re already self-aware. That saves me a speech.”
Robby huffs—then immediately regrets it, hand shifting toward his ribs. “Still got great bedside manner, I see.”
“Still making terrible decisions, I see.”
That lands.
Robby glances at him, sharp despite the fatigue. “Wasn’t like that.”
“No helmet,” Whitaker replies flatly. “Late night. Wet roads. Tell me which part of that was the good idea.”
Robby looks away. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”
Whitaker lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “You’re fifty-five, Robby.”
“Fifty-two.”
“Not helping your case.”
A flicker of something passes between them—almost humor, almost not.
Then it fades.
“You could’ve died,” Whitaker says.
Robby’s expression shuts down slightly. “Didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is.”
Whitaker leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice lower now. “No, it’s not. The point is you don’t bounce back from things like you used to.”
Robby’s eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“See? That,” Whitaker says. “That right there. Like it’s an insult instead of reality.”
Robby shifts, wincing but pushing through it. “I know exactly what my reality is.”
“Do you?”
Robby looks at him then, properly. There’s something heavier in it now—not just deflection, not just irritation.
Years of it.
“You think this is new?” Robby says quietly. “You think I don’t know what it feels like to hit the ground and wonder if that’s the one that sticks?”
Whitaker stills.
Robby exhales slowly, gaze drifting. “Difference is, you don’t always get to stop.”
Whitaker frowns. “You weren’t on a call. You were on a bike.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a choice.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Everything’s a choice.”
“Then why make that one?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away.
The silence stretches—long enough that Whitaker almost lets it go.
Almost.
“Robby.”
Robby closes his eyes briefly. “Because it’s the only time my head shuts up.”
That hits harder than anything else.
Whitaker sits back slightly, caught off guard. “What?”
Robby lets out a quiet breath. “You ever get it? Where everything just… stacks up. Every call, every mistake, every what-if you didn’t have time to think about in the moment?”
Whitaker doesn’t respond.
Robby gives a faint, humorless smile. “Yeah. You will.”
Whitaker shakes his head. “That’s not a reason to—”
“It’s a reason to need five minutes where it’s just road and noise and nothing else,” Robby cuts in. “No patients. No decisions. No one depending on you not screwing up.”
Whitaker’s voice softens despite himself. “And if you die getting those five minutes?”
Robby opens his eyes, looking at him steadily. “Then at least it’s quiet.”
The words hang there.
Too honest. Too tired.
Whitaker exhales slowly, something in his expression shifting. “That’s not… a solution.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
“Then what is?”
Robby looks away again. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”
Silence settles between them.
Different now.
Less sharp. More… exposed.
Whitaker studies him—the lines in his face, the exhaustion he usually hides behind stubbornness and bad decisions.
“You scared me,” Whitaker says quietly.
Robby’s gaze flickers back. “You’ve seen worse.”
“Not like that.”
A pause.
Then, more deliberate: “Not you.”
Robby’s expression tightens slightly, like he doesn’t quite know where to put that.
“You’ll get over it,” he mutters.
Whitaker lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about.”
Robby frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Whitaker says, leaning forward again, “I don’t want this to be something I just… get used to. Watching you walk in here broken and pretending it’s fine.”
Robby holds his gaze.
For a moment, it looks like he might push back.
He doesn’t.
Instead, something in his shoulders eases—just slightly.
“Wasn’t planning on making a habit of it,” he says.
Whitaker raises an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
That almost earns a smile.
Almost.
Robby shifts carefully, settling back against the pillow. “You staying?”
Whitaker doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
Robby nods once.
“Okay.”
Whitaker leans back in the chair, arms crossed loosely, eyes still on him.
The monitors hum steadily. The hospital moves on around them.
But in the quiet of that curtained space, something unspoken settles into place—something neither of them names, but neither of them ignores, either.
And for once, Robby doesn’t reach for the noise to drown it out.
Robby’s still holding the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.
He hasn’t typed anything.
Whitaker’s watching him—trying not to make it obvious, failing anyway.
“Just send ‘alive,’” Whitaker says. “That’s probably enough to stop him kicking the door down.”
Robby huffs faintly. “You don’t know Abbott.”
“I know enough.”
Robby glances up at him, something quieter in his expression now. “Yeah. You do.”
That… lingers.
Whitaker shifts his weight slightly, like he’s about to say something else. Something that’s been building since the ambulance doors opened. Since before that, probably.
“Robby—”
Robby looks at him.
And this time, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t reach for something safer to say.
“What?” he asks, low.
Whitaker exhales, jaw tightening like he’s arguing with himself even now. “I just—”
The door slams open.
Neither of them has time to move.
Abbott stops dead just inside the room, eyes flicking between them—Whitaker standing too close, Robby looking at him like the rest of the world has temporarily stopped existing.
It takes him exactly half a second.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Abbott says.
Whitaker straightens immediately, stepping back. “Great timing.”
“Don’t you dare,” Abbott shoots back, already moving further in. “Do not ‘great timing’ me. I just got told you wiped out on a bike and no one thought to lead with the fact that you’re fine—”
“I was going to text—” Robby starts.
“—and I walk in here,” Abbott continues, ignoring him completely, “and you two are doing… whatever the hell that was.”
“Medical supervision,” Whitaker says.
Abbott gives him a look. “I have worked here long enough to know what medical supervision does not look like, Whitaker.”
Whitaker opens his mouth, then closes it again.
Robby, traitor that he is, looks faintly amused.
“Good,” Abbott says, pointing at him. “You’re conscious. Fantastic. Now explain to me why you decided to nearly kill yourself without a helmet.”
Robby sighs. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Abbott snaps. “Next time I’ll wait until you’re actually dead to be concerned.”
“Bit late then.”
“That’s the point!”
Whitaker lets out a quiet breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He’s stable. Two fractured ribs, concussion. He got lucky.”
Abbott’s expression tightens. “Yeah. He did.”
For a second, the room settles—real concern cutting through the noise.
Then Abbott’s gaze shifts back between them.
Slowly.
Suspiciously.
“…I interrupted something,” he says.
“No,” Whitaker and Robby say at the same time.
Abbott raises an eyebrow. “That was disturbingly synchronized.”
“Coincidence,” Whitaker says.
“Right.”
Abbott crosses his arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I walked in on a very specific kind of unresolved tension.”
“There’s no tension,” Robby says flatly.
Whitaker nods. “None.”
Abbott stares at them.
Then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You are both terrible liars.”
Robby shifts slightly, wincing. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Oh, we are absolutely doing this right now,” Abbott replies. “Because I just had to bully a nurse into giving me information, sprinted up here expecting the worst, and instead I get—” he gestures vaguely between them, “—this.”
Whitaker exhales. “It’s not what you think.”
Abbott points at him. “That sentence has never once been followed by something reassuring.”
Robby closes his eyes briefly. “Abbott—”
“No,” Abbott cuts in. “You don’t get to ‘Abbott’ me. You nearly died.”
“I didn’t—”
“You were close enough that I got called,” Abbott snaps. “That’s the threshold.”
Silence.
That lands heavier.
Robby looks away.
Abbott’s voice drops slightly, less sharp now. “You don’t get to be careless like that.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
Whitaker glances between them, something unsettled in his expression.
Abbott exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus. You’re both—”
He stops.
Looks at Whitaker.
Then back at Robby.
And something clicks.
“…Oh,” Abbott says.
Whitaker freezes. “Don’t.”
Abbott ignores him. “Oh, that’s so much worse.”
“There is nothing—” Whitaker starts.
“—you look like someone just told you the world was ending when he came in,” Abbott cuts in.
Whitaker goes still.
Robby doesn’t speak.
Abbott points between them again, slower this time. “And you,” he says to Robby, “are not shutting this down.”
Robby’s grip tightens slightly on the blanket.
“That’s new.”
“Abbott,” Robby says, quieter now, a warning threaded through it.
Abbott holds up his hands. “Alright. Fine. Not my circus.”
A beat.
“Definitely my hospital, though,” he adds.
Whitaker lets out a strained breath. “Can you not—”
“No, I think I very much can,” Abbott replies. “But I’m choosing, out of sheer generosity, to pretend I didn’t just walk in on whatever that was.”
“Thank you,” Whitaker mutters.
Abbott nods. “You’re welcome. I will, however, circle back to the helmet situation.”
Robby groans softly. “We’re still on that?”
“We will always be on that,” Abbott says. “Until you develop basic self-preservation instincts.”
Whitaker folds his arms. “Good luck with that.”
Robby glares at him faintly. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Abbott watches the exchange, eyes narrowing slightly—still clocking things, still filing them away.
But he lets it go.
For now.
“You’re texting me next time,” Abbott says firmly. “Before you get put in a trauma bay.”
“Noted.”
Abbott points at Whitaker. “And you—boundaries.”
Whitaker raises an eyebrow. “I’m literally sitting in a chair.”
“Uh-huh.”
A pause.
Then Abbott exhales, tension easing just slightly. “Alright. You’re alive. I’ve yelled at you. I’m leaving before I say something I can’t un-know.”
“Appreciated,” Whitaker says.
Abbott heads for the door, then stops.
Turns back.
“…seriously, though,” he adds, quieter, to Robby. “Don’t do that again.”
Robby nods once. “Yeah.”
Abbott lingers a second longer—then leaves.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Heavy. Charged. Worse than before.
Whitaker exhales slowly. “Well.”
Robby stares at the ceiling. “That went well.”
Whitaker huffs. “Could’ve been worse.”
Robby turns his head slightly, looking at him again. “You were saying something.”
Whitaker stills.
“Before he came in,” Robby adds.
A beat.
Whitaker hesitates—just long enough to matter.
Then: “Yeah.”
Robby watches him, steady now. “You gonna finish it?”
Whitaker meets his gaze.
This time, he doesn’t look away.
“…yeah,” he says quietly.
And now there’s nothing left to interrupt them.
Abbott pauses at the door, hand already on the handle.
“…seriously, though,” he starts, glancing back, “I—”
He stops.
His eyes flick between them again.
Whitaker, standing just a little too close.
Robby, still watching him like the conversation didn’t end when Abbott walked in.
Abbott exhales slowly.
“No,” he says. “No, I’m not leaving yet. I’m not done processing whatever the hell this is.”
Whitaker closes his eyes briefly. “You said you were leaving.”
“I lied.”
“That tracks.”
Abbott points at him. “You—stop deflecting.”
“I’m not deflecting.”
“You are entirely deflection.”
Robby shifts slightly in the bed, wincing but clearly invested now despite himself. “This is painful on multiple levels.”
“Good,” Abbott says. “It should be.”
Whitaker folds his arms. “Can you make your point and go?”
“My point,” Abbott says, stepping closer again, “is that I walk in here and somehow you two look like you’re in the middle of a scene you forgot to finish.”
“No, we don’t,” Whitaker replies immediately.
Abbott raises an eyebrow. “You really want me to list the visual cues?”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m going to anyway—”
“Abbott.”
“—proximity, eye contact, whatever the hell that was before I walked in—”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
Robby lets out a faint breath that might be a laugh. “You’re making it worse.”
“I’m making it accurate,” Abbott shoots back.
Whitaker shakes his head, jaw tight. “You’re making assumptions.”
Abbott tilts his head. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Bold stance.”
“It’s the correct one.”
Abbott studies him for a long moment—then, very deliberately, looks between them again.
“…which one of you is the problem?” he asks.
Whitaker blinks. “What?”
“In this hypothetical situation you’re pretending doesn’t exist,” Abbott continues, “which one of you is the one making it complicated?”
Robby snorts softly. “That’s not even a question.”
Whitaker shoots him a look. “Oh, that’s generous.”
Abbott’s eyes light slightly, like he’s just been handed something useful. “Oh, it’s you.”
Whitaker frowns. “Excuse me?”
“It’s absolutely you,” Abbott says, pointing at him. “He looks like he’s already accepted whatever this is. You look like you’re arguing with it.”
Robby goes very still.
Whitaker scoffs. “That is—no. That is not—”
Abbott just stares at him.
Whitaker exhales sharply. “I’m not—there’s no—this isn’t—”
“You’re spiraling,” Abbott says.
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re using too many sentences. That’s how I know.”
Robby watches the whole thing, something unreadable in his expression now.
Whitaker drags a hand through his hair. “You’re reading into things that aren’t there.”
Abbott’s tone goes dry. “Right. And you just happen to be lingering on a ward you don’t work on, hovering over a man you very clearly have Opinions about.”
“I do not—”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Whitaker exhales, visibly restraining himself. “For the record—”
Abbott waits.
Whitaker glares at him. “—I’m not the monkey, Abbott.”
There’s a beat.
Robby turns his head slightly, brow furrowing. “…what?”
Abbott blinks once—then lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh my god.”
Whitaker immediately looks like he regrets everything. “That came out wrong.”
“No, no,” Abbott says, holding up a hand, grinning now despite himself. “Please, explain. I’d love to hear this clarified.”
“There’s nothing to clarify.”
“You just called yourself ‘not the monkey.’ There is absolutely something to clarify.”
Robby’s lips twitch, despite the situation. “I feel like I missed a step.”
Whitaker points at Abbott. “He started it.”
“I did not start whatever that was.”
“You absolutely implied—”
“I implied nothing! You volunteered that information completely unprompted!”
Whitaker presses his lips together, losing ground rapidly. “That is not what happened.”
Abbott looks delighted. “It is exactly what happened.”
Robby shakes his head faintly, amusement breaking through the exhaustion. “This is unbelievable.”
Whitaker glances at him, defensive. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m injured,” Robby replies. “This is all I have right now.”
Abbott exhales, still smiling slightly, then reins it in. “Alright. I’ve learned more than I wanted to, and somehow less than I needed to.”
Whitaker mutters, “Great.”
Abbott gestures between them one last time. “Whatever this is—figure it out. Quietly. Preferably without involving emergency services again.”
“No promises,” Robby says.
“That was not a joke.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Abbott sighs, then finally turns back to the door. “Text me next time.”
“I will.”
“And wear a helmet.”
Robby closes his eyes. “Yes, Abbott.”
Abbott looks at Whitaker. “And you—stop saying things like that.”
Whitaker grimaces. “Noted.”
Abbott nods once, satisfied enough.
Then he leaves.
The door shuts.
Silence.
A beat.
Then—
“…the monkey?” Robby says.
Whitaker drops his head into his hand. “I’m not explaining that.”
Robby’s voice is rough with a suppressed laugh. “No, I think you are.”
Whitaker looks up at him, resigned. “I meant I’m not the one making this weird.”
Robby raises an eyebrow slightly. “You sure about that?”
Whitaker hesitates.
Then, quieter: “…no.”
That lands softer than anything before it.
Robby watches him.
“You were saying something,” he says again.
Whitaker stills.
The humor fades—not completely, but enough.
“Yeah,” he says.
This time, there’s nothing left to hide behind.
And no one left to interrupt.
Whitaker doesn’t move right away.
For a second, it looks like he might—like he might fall back into something safer, deflect, make a joke, let the moment pass like it almost did before.
But he doesn’t.
Robby’s still watching him.
Waiting.
“You were saying something,” Robby repeats, quieter this time.
Whitaker exhales slowly, like he’s already committed and just catching up to it.
“Yeah,” he says.
A beat.
Then, before he can overthink it—
“Fuck it, Robby, I love you.”
The words land hard in the quiet room.
No build-up. No softening. Just there, blunt and undeniable.
Whitaker lets out a short, breathless laugh, already shaking his head slightly. “When I heard about the motorcycle accident, I knew it was you. I don’t even know how, I just—knew. And all I could think was—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening, then pushes through it, “—that I might not get the chance to say it.”
Robby hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t even blinked.
Whitaker presses on, quieter now but no less steady. “And for the record, that’s not a good enough reason to get yourself killed, and neither is whatever excuse you’re going to give me about ‘needing quiet,’ so we’re circling back to the helmet thing later—”
“Whit.”
That stops him.
Robby’s voice is rough—not from the injury this time.
Whitaker goes still.
Robby’s looking at him like the air’s been knocked out of him in a way the crash didn’t quite manage.
“You don’t get to just drop that in the middle of an argument,” Robby says.
Whitaker huffs softly. “Didn’t feel like an argument.”
“It was.”
“Yeah,” Whitaker admits. “It was.”
Silence stretches.
Not empty.
Just… full.
Robby swallows, gaze flicking briefly away before coming back. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
Whitaker hesitates.
“…long enough that it’s not a reaction to tonight.”
That lands differently.
Robby’s grip tightens slightly on the blanket. “You picked a hell of a time to say it.”
Whitaker shrugs faintly. “Didn’t exactly plan it.”
“No,” Robby says. “You never do.”
There’s no bite in it.
Just recognition.
Whitaker watches him carefully now, something more uncertain creeping in at the edges. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
“I’m not—asking for anything.”
“I know,” Robby repeats.
Another pause.
Robby exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady something internal that’s shifted too quickly.
“You always do this?” he asks.
Whitaker frowns. “Do what?”
“Say the thing no one’s supposed to say. At the worst possible time.”
Whitaker considers that. “…only when it matters.”
That hits.
Robby looks at him for a long moment—really looks, like he’s recalibrating something he thought he understood.
“You make this complicated,” he says quietly.
Whitaker gives a small, humorless smile. “You think it wasn’t already?”
Robby’s lips twitch faintly, then settle.
“I’m fifty-two,” he says after a moment.
Whitaker nods. “I’m aware.”
“This doesn’t—” Robby gestures vaguely between them, then stops. “It’s not simple.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You could walk away from this.”
Whitaker’s expression sharpens slightly. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
Robby exhales, tension flickering across his face. “You’re not thinking about what this actually means.”
Whitaker steps closer—not crowding, just enough to close some of the distance again. “I am. You just don’t like my answer.”
Robby’s gaze holds his.
“You’re stubborn,” he says.
Whitaker huffs. “Yeah. You’ve mentioned.”
A beat.
Then, quieter: “Say something real, Robby.”
That lands deeper than everything else.
Robby goes still.
For a second, it looks like he might retreat—like he might shut it down, file it away, survive it the way he survives everything else.
Instead—
“…you don’t scare easy,” Robby says.
Whitaker frowns slightly. “That’s your response?”
“It’s relevant.”
“How?”
Robby’s voice drops, steadier now. “Because you should be a little scared of this.”
Whitaker doesn’t look away. “I am.”
Robby searches his face. “Not enough.”
Whitaker shakes his head slightly. “No. Just enough.”
That… shifts something.
Robby exhales, slower this time.
Then, carefully—like it costs him something—
“You don’t get to say that and expect me to pretend I didn’t hear it,” he says.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Good.”
Silence again.
But it’s changed.
Irreversibly.
Robby’s hand shifts slightly on the bed—closer to the edge this time. Not quite reaching.
Whitaker notices.
He always does.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate.
He steps in just enough and rests his hand lightly against Robby’s again.
Not hidden.
Not explained.
Robby’s breath catches—small, but real.
“You’re an idiot,” Robby murmurs.
Whitaker’s mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then, quieter:
“…not the only one.”
Whitaker stills.
Robby doesn’t elaborate.
But he doesn’t pull his hand away, either.
And for now—
that’s enough.
:::
Robby stares at their hands for a long moment.
Not shocked anymore.
Just… quiet.
Whitaker can still feel the tension under his skin—the adrenaline crash from the confession, the panic that came with saying it out loud and not being able to take it back.
He should probably move.
He doesn’t.
The monitors hum softly beside them.
Outside the curtain, someone laughs down the hall. A trolley rattles past. The hospital keeps moving like nothing catastrophic has just happened in bed four.
Robby finally exhales through his nose. “You really picked now.”
Whitaker’s thumb shifts slightly against the back of his hand before he catches himself. “Timing’s never been my thing.”
“No,” Robby murmurs. “Apparently not.”
But he still isn’t pulling away.
Whitaker watches him carefully. “You okay?”
That earns him a look.
“I got launched off a motorcycle,” Robby says dryly. “Define okay.”
Whitaker’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Fair.”
Robby’s gaze drops again, slower this time—back to where Whitaker’s hand is resting against his.
Something guarded flickers across his face.
Not rejection.
Worse.
Hope.
“You know this is a bad idea,” Robby says quietly.
Whitaker leans back slightly in the chair. “Probably.”
“The age gap alone—”
“I know how old you are.”
Robby gives him a flat look. “You really don’t stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like saying things casually makes them less insane.”
Whitaker shrugs faintly. “Hasn’t failed me yet.”
“It absolutely has.”
That almost pulls a laugh out of him.
Almost.
Then Robby’s expression shifts again, something heavier settling underneath it.
“You’ve got time,” he says after a moment. “Your whole life’s still ahead of you.”
Whitaker’s brow furrows immediately. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Talk like you’re halfway in the grave already.”
Robby looks away.
And there it is.
The exhaustion underneath everything else.
The wear-and-tear. The grief. The years spent holding everyone together until there was nothing left in him that wasn’t bruised around the edges.
Whitaker’s voice softens. “Robby.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like,” Robby says quietly. “Getting older in this job.”
Whitaker doesn’t interrupt.
Robby swallows once before continuing. “One day you realise everyone coming through those doors looks younger than you expected. Then one day you realise the people beside you are younger too.” His jaw tightens slightly. “And eventually you start wondering when exactly you became the cautionary tale.”
Whitaker feels something ache sharply in his chest.
“You aren’t a cautionary tale.”
Robby huffs softly. “That’s because you still think I’m worth looking at.”
Whitaker goes completely still.
Then—
“Jesus Christ, Robby.”
Robby’s expression flickers, almost defensive now, like he already regrets letting that slip out.
Whitaker leans forward in the chair, eyes fixed on him. “Is that seriously what you think this is?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
“That I’m here because I forgot you’re older than me?” Whitaker asks. “Because I somehow missed the grey hair and the permanent scowl?”
“That’s not what I—”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
Robby exhales slowly, frustration threading through the embarrassment now. “Whit—”
“No.” Whitaker shakes his head once. “You don’t get to decide this for me.”
Silence.
Robby looks at him carefully.
Whitaker rarely raises his voice. Rarely pushes this hard.
But there’s something raw under this one.
“I know you’re older,” Whitaker says, quieter now. “I know you’re stubborn and exhausted and you carry half the damn hospital around on your back like it’s your job to suffer for everyone else.” His jaw tightens slightly. “I know you scare the hell out of me every time you act like your life matters less than everybody else’s.”
Robby’s throat works once.
Whitaker holds his gaze. “And I still love you.”
That lands harder the second time.
Robby closes his eyes briefly.
Not shutting down.
Just absorbing it.
When he opens them again, there’s something dangerously unguarded there now.
“You make this really hard,” he says softly.
Whitaker huffs a faint laugh. “Yeah, well. You make me insane, so I think we’re even.”
That actually gets him—a quiet laugh that immediately turns into a wince as his ribs protest.
Whitaker’s expression changes instantly. “Easy.”
“Don’t start.”
“You literally fractured ribs.”
“And you’re hovering again.”
“I’m a doctor. It’s medically sanctioned hovering.”
Robby shakes his head faintly, still fighting the edge of that smile.
Whitaker watches him for a second too long.
The exhaustion’s still there. The bruising. The years.
But so is this.
This softness Robby almost never lets anyone see.
Whitaker says it before he can stop himself.
“You’re beautiful, you know.”
Robby freezes.
Whitaker immediately regrets having functioning vocal cords.
“…okay,” he mutters. “That one might’ve been too much.”
Robby’s staring at him now like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“You are concussed,” Whitaker adds quickly. “Maybe ignore that.”
“Whit.”
“Yep.”
“You just called me beautiful.”
Whitaker drags a hand down his face. “I’m aware.”
“At my absolute worst.”
Whitaker looks back at him steadily. “No,” he says quietly. “I think this is just the first time you’ve let me see you clearly.”
That breaks something open.
Small.
Silent.
But real.
Robby looks away sharply, eyes glassing for just a second before he gets it back under control.
Whitaker pretends not to notice.
That’s the kindness of it.
After a long moment, Robby speaks again—voice rougher now.
“You really mean all this.”
Whitaker doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
Robby nods once.
Slowly.
Like accepting something terrifying.
Then his fingers shift under Whitaker’s hand, threading carefully through them despite the IV line tugging awkwardly at his wrist.
Intentional.
Not accidental.
Whitaker goes still.
Robby keeps his eyes on their joined hands when he says, very quietly—
“…okay.”
Whitaker’s chest tightens painfully. “Okay?”
Robby finally looks up at him again.
There’s still fear there.
Still hesitation.
But underneath it now is something warmer. Something that’s probably been there longer than either of them wanted to admit.
“Yeah,” Robby says softly. “Okay.”
Whitaker stares at him for another second too long.
Robby notices.
Of course he notices.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Robby murmurs.
Whitaker blinks slightly. “What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to solve a medical mystery.”
Whitaker’s mouth twitches faintly. “You are a medical mystery.”
“Pretty sure fractured ribs are straightforward.”
“Mm. Debatable.”
Robby shifts carefully against the pillows, breath catching slightly when the movement pulls at his side.
Whitaker’s expression changes immediately.
“There,” he says quietly.
Robby sighs. “You can’t diagnose pain from a facial expression.”
“I literally can.”
“Show-off.”
Whitaker stands before he can think too hard about it, stepping closer to the bed again. “Don’t freak out,” he says carefully, “but I should probably… tend to the broken ribs.”
Robby raises an eyebrow.
“That what they’re calling it now?”
Whitaker ignores that with remarkable dignity. “I need to check for worsening tenderness and bruising.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell. It’s making this worse.”
Whitaker fights the urge to smile. “Is that okay?”
Something softer settles over Robby’s expression then.
Not teasing.
Just trust.
“Yeah, kid,” he says quietly. “It’s okay.”
Whitaker’s fingers hesitate briefly at the hem of Robby’s shirt before he carefully starts lifting it.
Slowly.
Mindful of the bruising.
Robby winces once as the fabric drags over his ribs.
“Sorry,” Whitaker murmurs immediately.
“It’s fine.”
But Whitaker still slows down.
The bruises are ugly when they’re exposed fully—darkening along Robby’s side, blooming across skin that already bears older scars underneath.
Whitaker goes still for half a second.
Robby notices that too.
“Not exactly pretty right now.”
Whitaker’s eyes flick up to his. “Didn’t say that.”
And before he can stop himself from overthinking it, he leans down slightly—
presses a careful kiss just beside the bruising.
Robby inhales sharply.
Whitaker pauses immediately. “Too much?”
“No,” Robby says, voice rougher now. “Just unexpected.”
Whitaker’s hand settles lightly against his side, warm and steady while he maps the injuries with careful fingers.
Every flinch.
Every tight breath.
Every tender spot.
And every so often, another soft kiss against bruised skin like he’s trying to apologize to Robby’s body for what the road did to it.
The room goes quieter with each one.
Robby’s eyes drift half-shut eventually, breathing slower despite the ache.
Whitaker presses one more kiss near the sharp line of a fractured rib and mutters softly, “This one bad?”
Robby’s fingers tighten slightly in the blanket.
“…little.”
Whitaker’s thumb strokes lightly along his side without thinking.
That earns him a long look.
“You know,” Robby says after a moment, voice low with tired amusement, “for someone pretending this is medical, you’re being real gentle about it.”
Whitaker doesn’t look up. “You’re injured.”
“Mm.”
Another kiss.
Another careful touch.
Then Robby exhales softly through his nose. “Alright, kid.”
Whitaker glances up.
Robby’s watching him now with something warm and dangerous in his expression.
“You can move those kisses a little higher if you want to.”
Whitaker stills completely.
“…Robby.”
“What?” he says innocently. “Thought we were tending injuries.”
Whitaker lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, forehead dropping briefly against Robby’s side. “You are impossible.”
“And yet here you are.”
Whitaker looks up again slowly.
Closer now than either of them intended.
Robby’s hand drifts into his hair almost absentmindedly, fingers brushing lightly through it.
That nearly undoes him.
Whitaker’s eyes close for one dangerous second.
Then the curtain jerks open.
“Oh good, you’re bo—”
Abbott stops dead.
Silence.
Whitaker is bent over Robby’s bare ribs.
Robby’s hand is in Whitaker’s hair.
Whitaker still has one hand spread against Robby’s waist.
Nobody moves.
Abbott blinks once.
Slowly.
“…I am never beating the allegations,” Whitaker says flatly without looking up.
Robby immediately starts laughing—and instantly regrets it, hissing as his ribs protest.
“Oh my god, don’t make him laugh,” Whitaker says, straightening immediately. “Are you okay?”
Abbott stares at them.
Then points violently at the scene in front of him.
“No. No, absolutely not. I leave for ten minutes and you turn the trauma bay into a slow-burn cable drama?”
Whitaker scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Abbott gawks at him. “You are literally shirt-adjacent!”
“I was checking his ribs.”
“With your mouth?”
Whitaker opens his mouth.
Closes it again.
Robby’s still trying not to laugh himself back into cardiac arrest.
Abbott looks between them in horror. “I cannot believe I’m the only professional in this room.”
“You sprinted in here without knocking,” Whitaker mutters.
“And thank god I did,” Abbott fires back. “Apparently HR needed me personally.”
Robby finally manages to breathe normally again, eyes bright despite the pain. “In his defense…”
Abbott points at him. “No. Absolutely not. You lost speaking privileges the second the hand-in-hair thing happened.”
Whitaker groans quietly. “Please leave.”
Abbott stares at him another second.
Then narrows his eyes.
“…did he call you kid?”
Whitaker freezes.
Robby looks delighted.
Abbott presses his lips together like he’s physically containing several screams. “Oh, that is catastrophic information for me.”
“Abbott—”
“Nope. I’m leaving. I’m leaving before this somehow gets worse.”
“It can get worse?” Robby asks mildly.
Abbott points at him on the way out. “Helmet. Next time.”
Then points at Whitaker.
“And you stop kissing patients.”
Whitaker deadpans instantly, “He consented.”
Abbott makes a strangled noise and disappears behind the curtain.
The silence afterward lasts exactly three seconds before Robby starts laughing again into the pillow.
Whitaker looks at him helplessly.
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
Robby grins despite the bruises, the exhaustion, the pain.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
“I really am.”
Abbott’s already halfway through the curtain when Robby says it.
“Oh, come on, Jack,” he drawls, still breathless around the edges from laughing. “I’m not his boss in here. I’m a patient.”
Abbott stops.
Very slowly turns back around.
Whitaker closes his eyes immediately. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“Oh, I think I have to,” Abbott says faintly, staring at Robby like he’s personally betrayed him. “Do you have any idea how much worse that sentence made this?”
Robby shifts carefully back against the pillows, entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re overreacting.”
“You are shirtless in a trauma bay while one of my doctors looks at you like he’s composing poetry internally.”
Whitaker mutters, “That feels excessive.”
Abbott points sharply at him. “You kissed him medically.”
“That is not a thing,” Whitaker says.
“Then why did you say it like it was chartable?”
Robby’s shoulders shake with another laugh before his ribs remind him he’s mortal.
Whitaker immediately leans toward him again. “Easy.”
And there it is again.
That instinctive softness.
Abbott watches the whole thing happen in real time and looks physically pained by it.
“Oh, this is unbearable,” he says. “You two are unbearable.”
Robby glances at Whitaker sidelong. “He’s taking this surprisingly personally.”
“You made me emotionally invest in your survival tonight,” Abbott fires back. “That creates rights.”
Whitaker folds his arms, defensive again now that he’s standing upright and no longer kissing anyone’s ribs. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not being dramatic enough.”
Robby tilts his head slightly. “You know, for someone complaining, you haven’t actually left yet.”
Abbott opens his mouth.
Stops.
Points at him. “You’re manipulative when concussed.”
“Yeah,” Whitaker says quietly. “Normally he has more subtlety.”
Robby looks genuinely offended. “I’m always subtle.”
Both of them stare at him.
Robby sighs. “Alright, maybe not always.”
Abbott rubs a hand down his face. “I need you to understand that from my perspective, I walked into this room twice and each time it got more homoerotic.”
Whitaker nearly chokes on air. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious!” Abbott says. “First it’s unresolved longing, now it’s whatever the hell this is.”
Robby’s mouth twitches. “Medical treatment.”
Whitaker points at him immediately. “You lost the right to use that phrase.”
“Oh, so now there are boundaries.”
Abbott makes a strangled noise like he’s seconds from filing paperwork against both of them.
Whitaker sighs heavily. “Jack.”
“No, don’t ‘Jack’ me in that tone,” Abbott replies. “You know what that tone means now.”
Whitaker blinks. “What tone?”
“The one where you look at him like he hung the moon despite the fact he nearly died in a drainage ditch six hours ago.”
Silence.
Robby’s expression shifts first.
Small.
Caught off guard by it.
Whitaker notices immediately and looks away before the honesty on his face becomes too obvious.
Abbott sees that too.
“…oh, you idiots are actually gone for each other,” he says quietly.
Neither of them answers.
Which is answer enough.
The room softens around the edges for a second after that.
Less teasing.
More real.
Abbott exhales slowly, some of the sharpness leaving him. “Okay,” he says at last. “Fine. I’ll stop terrorizing the recovering patient.”
“Appreciated,” Robby murmurs.
“But,” Abbott adds, pointing between them one last time, “if either of you makes this weird at work, I am transferring departments.”
Whitaker deadpans instantly, “That feels extreme.”
“You were kissing his ribs ten minutes ago.”
“In my defense—”
“No,” Abbott interrupts. “There is no defense available to you anymore.”
Robby grins lazily from the bed. “I don’t know. I thought his bedside manner was excellent.”
Whitaker drops his head into his hands.
Abbott stares at the ceiling like he’s asking God for strength.
“Oh, you are absolutely made for each other,” he mutters.
Abbott’s expression changes with terrifying suddenness.
One second he looks exasperated.
The next, fully administrative.
“Oh, absolutely not,” he says sharply.
Whitaker immediately narrows his eyes. “Dr Abbott.”
“Whitaker, I’m taking you off this case effective immediately.”
The room goes still.
Robby blinks once from the bed. “Wow. Harsh.”
Abbott points at him without looking away from Whitaker. “You don’t get a vote right now, Captain Incapacitated.”
“I hate that nickname.”
“You earned it.”
Whitaker folds his arms. “This is unnecessary.”
Abbott lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Unnecessary? Whitaker, ten minutes ago I walked in on you diagnosing rib fractures with your mouth.”
“That is not what happened.”
“You were horizontal!”
“I was leaning!”
Robby’s shoulders shake dangerously with silent laughter again.
Abbott points between them. “See? This is exactly the problem. One: because of whatever the hell I just witnessed. And two: because our main captain is currently concussed, drugged, emotionally compromised, and flirting through severe thoracic trauma.”
Robby raises a hand slightly. “In my defense, I’m very charming under pressure.”
Whitaker mutters, “Unfortunately true.”
Abbott swings toward him instantly. “And you. Out.”
Whitaker blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Whitaker plants his feet like that’s somehow going to help. “He’s my patient.”
“No,” Abbott says flatly. “He’s your situationship.”
Robby outright laughs at that—then immediately groans, clutching his ribs.
Whitaker’s attention snaps back to him in an instant. “Hey. Breathe. Easy.”
Abbott watches the entire exchange happen in real time and looks vindicated beyond belief.
“See?” he says loudly. “That. That right there. You looked more panicked about him laughing than you did during active trauma intake.”
Whitaker opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Robby glances between them, deeply entertained despite the pain medication clearly starting to make him softer around the edges.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I think Jack’s enjoying this.”
“I am not enjoying this,” Abbott replies immediately. “I am surviving it.”
Whitaker exhales through his nose. “He needs monitoring.”
“And someone else will monitor him.”
“I know his chart.”
“So does literally every doctor on this floor.”
Whitaker hesitates.
Which is the first sign Abbott’s winning.
Robby notices too.
“Oh, that’s evil,” he murmurs.
Abbott points triumphantly. “Thank you.”
Whitaker glares at both of them now. “You’re both impossible.”
“Probably,” Robby admits.
Abbott crosses his arms. “Whitaker.”
“What?”
“Out.”
Whitaker looks at Robby instinctively.
That’s the mistake.
Abbott catches it immediately.
“Oh my god, you were actually considering refusing.”
Whitaker straightens. “I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was assessing the situation.”
“You looked at him like a divorced dad deciding custody arrangements.”
Robby loses it completely, laughing hard enough tears spring into his eyes.
Whitaker points accusingly at Abbott while simultaneously reaching to steady Robby by the shoulder. “You are actively worsening his condition.”
“And you are emotionally attached to your patient.”
Whitaker freezes.
Silence drops heavily for half a second.
Because that one’s true.
Robby’s laughter fades first.
Abbott’s expression softens just slightly around the edges. “Whit.”
Whitaker looks away briefly, jaw tight.
“I know,” Abbott says quieter now. “That’s exactly why you need to step back.”
The fight goes out of Whitaker in increments.
Not because Abbott’s wrong.
Because he isn’t.
Robby watches him carefully from the bed, something gentler settling over his expression.
“You can come back after shift,” he says softly.
Whitaker looks at him immediately.
Robby gives him a faint smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That hits harder than it should.
Whitaker exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You better not.”
Abbott points toward the curtain. “Door. Now. Before I have HR write ‘medically inappropriate yearning’ into an incident report.”
Whitaker glares at him one last time.
Then looks back at Robby.
The entire room quiets around the glance they exchange.
Too much said in it.
Too obvious now to hide.
Robby’s voice lowers slightly. “Go do your job, kid.”
Whitaker’s mouth twitches faintly at that.
“Bossy for someone in a hospital gown.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Abbott physically herds Whitaker backward toward the curtain. “Move.”
Whitaker finally relents, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder.
Robby’s still watching him.
Soft-eyed.
Alive.
Whitaker points once toward the bed as he backs out of the bay. “Helmet next time.”
Robby grins lazily. “Can’t believe that’s your takeaway.”
“It’s my primary takeaway.”
Abbott shoves the curtain wider. “Out!”
Whitaker disappears into the hallway still muttering under his breath.
The second he’s gone, Abbott looks back at Robby.
Robby’s smile lingers for exactly two more seconds before something quieter takes its place.
Abbott sees that too.
“…oh,” he says softly.
Robby glances at him. “What?”
Abbott studies him for a long moment.
Then sighs.
“You’re gone too.”
Robby looks down at the blanket in his lap, thumb brushing absently over where Whitaker’s hand had been earlier.
A beat passes.
Then, very quietly—
“…yeah.”
Whitaker stops just outside the curtain.
Clearly still debating mutiny.
Abbott points toward the hallway again. “Do not make me call security.”
Whitaker scoffs. “You’re not calling security.”
“I absolutely will. I’ll tell them you’re emotionally trespassing.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is tonight.”
Robby watches the whole exchange from the bed with exhausted amusement written all over his face.
Finally, Whitaker throws both hands up slightly. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll listen to you now, Dr. Asshole—sorry, I mean Dr. Abbott.”
Abbott gasps in mock offense. “Wow. Deeply unprofessional.”
“You started it.”
“I maintain that I’m the only professional left in this hospital.”
Whitaker rolls his eyes, then turns back toward Robby—and the shift in him is immediate.
Softer.
Quieter.
Like the rest of the room fades slightly at the edges again.
“I’ll come see you later,” he says. “If the warden Dr. Asshole allows it.”
Abbott points at him. “I heard that correction and I reject it.”
Robby’s mouth twitches.
Whitaker steps closer to the bed one last time.
This time there’s no hesitation.
No almost.
He leans down carefully and presses a soft kiss to Robby’s forehead.
Gentle enough that it nearly hurts.
Robby stills completely beneath it.
For one suspended second, the hospital noise outside disappears.
Whitaker lingers just long enough to matter before pulling back.
Robby’s looking at him differently now.
Not guarded.
Not uncertain.
Just openly fond in a way that would’ve terrified both of them a few hours ago.
“Alright, kid,” he murmurs softly. “Go save lives or whatever.”
Whitaker’s mouth twitches. “You’re mocking me.”
“A little.”
“You’re drugged.”
“And yet somehow still right.”
Abbott makes an exaggerated gagging motion behind them. “Okay, genuinely disgusting. Leave immediately.”
Whitaker straightens with a sigh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet I’m correct.”
Whitaker points toward Robby without looking away from Abbott. “If anything happens—”
“I know how hospitals work,” Abbott interrupts.
Whitaker narrows his eyes. “I’m serious.”
Abbott’s expression softens despite himself. “I know you are.”
Silence flickers briefly between them.
Then Abbott jerks his head toward the hall again. “Go.”
Whitaker exhales once through his nose before finally backing toward the curtain again.
But right before he disappears out into the corridor, Robby calls after him quietly—
“Hey, Whit?”
Whitaker looks back instantly.
Robby studies him for a second like he’s choosing something carefully.
Then:
“…thanks for staying.”
It’s such a small sentence.
But Whitaker looks like it hits somewhere deep.
His expression softens into something almost helpless.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Always.”
Then he’s gone.
The curtain swings shut behind him.
Abbott turns slowly toward Robby.
Robby is still staring at the spot Whitaker disappeared through.
Abbott watches him for a long moment before muttering:
“You two are going to be a nightmare.”
Robby smiles faintly at the ceiling.
“Probably.”